glass bombardment
by ShinigamiForever
Summary: A collection of abstract poetry dealing with Draco, his world, and, of course, Harry. Life unfolds, in an angsty poetically abstract way. A semi-slash production.


glass bombardment  
By: ShinigamiForever  
  
Warning: Strange. Strange. Strange. And, um... slash?  
  
Dislcaimer: I am JK Rowling. All bow to my superior disillusionment.  
  
Summary: A collection of abstract poetry dealing with Draco, his world, and, of course, Harry. Life unfolds, in an angsty poetically abstract way.  
  
A/N: Blame Jay. Blame her poetry. Blame her. She's at fault! While you're at it, though, visit her site at www.workerdrone.org and read Nursery Rhymes: the Princess, from which inspiration sprang from. There will be some explanation afterwards. Some. Not enough.  
  
***  
  
[I.]  
Silk flowers on the windowsill speak and--  
funny, I never noticed,  
but they are silk.  
  
Yes, silk they are, and I know better  
than to recollect his smile.  
My daddy, daddy, daddy,   
all dressed in black, black, black  
with silver cuff links, cuff links, cuff links  
all down his arms, arms, arms  
asked for my opinion. [1]  
  
O! How they glimmer in the light,  
those silver cuff links,  
beautiful silver cuff links that reflect his teeth.  
White teeth, white like ivory and daisy petals  
ground under his skin.  
White teeth, and he is no vampire,  
with silver cuff links, cuff links, cuff links  
all down his arms, arms, arms.   
  
While he in black and black and oil  
swoops like a vulture down on my back.  
Swoops, and claws with furious elbows  
poking and piercing and demanding in a voice,  
listen, listen, i am important, why don't you listen.  
Smells of herbs and steam and potions  
of musty walls with the echo of my daddy  
(his silver cuff links down on the floor)  
screaming.  
  
Silk flowers on the windowsill, and funny,  
I never noticed.  
  
[II.]  
An ink blot  
says nothing.  
But it should.  
Consider.  
Whose snowy owl.  
Whose scrawled letters.  
Whose scent.  
  
moor flowers.  
& sea wind.  
& crushed leaves.  
& honest sweat.  
  
An ink blot.  
What should it say.  
  
His owl stares at me.  
The black onyx eyes are  
like two demons  
waiting for me to strike black.   
His white owl  
who is white like my father's teeth  
  
& my daddy  
his cuff links are silver.  
because he likes the way the black looks against the silver.  
  
my daddy  
he does not like this owl  
because this owl belongs to that him.  
  
my daddy  
he does not like this owl  
because this owl reminds him of that him.  
  
my daddy  
he does not know  
that this owl comes to haunt at me.  
  
[III.]  
& my mommy   
she is gypsy [2]  
& my mommy  
she is wood nymph  
& my mommy  
she is fairy  
& my mommy--  
  
she is beautiful.  
  
My mommy has blond hair  
hair the color of sun lit ivory  
hair the color of dawn sky  
and hair the color of pale parchment  
  
and my mommy should have had ice blue eyes  
but my mommy has gray eyes  
eyes the color of stones  
and eyes the color of wood ashes  
  
My mommy has pale skin  
skin like pallid clouds  
skin the color of white sand  
and my mommy--  
  
O! How she is beautiful.  
  
[IV.]  
The train lurches as if it is to throw up all it has eaten,  
all of its passengers  
and all their luggage  
like its lunch, its bulimia.  
  
Lurching, lurching, my heart goes thumpty-thump  
but for different reasons.  
he is here, he is walls away  
amongst the other food pieces we are  
the train is churning him  
in its gigantic stomach  
waiting to exhale his stench.  
  
He is there and his mouth is moving  
a gaping hole never to be closed,  
a traffic of words  
crowded against each other   
in the air  
and he is suffocating.  
  
Silence, my dear Harry.  
  
The train  
l  
ur  
che  
s.  
  
[V.]  
he is in the library  
& i dare not go  
  
he is in the library  
& i dare not stay.  
  
[VI.]  
He is not a gypsy  
and he has not the silver cuff links  
  
but he is my mommy and he is my daddy  
and he is so much more of me.  
  
He smells of sandalwood at night on deserts far and far away.  
The dawn comes to sweep at his face when he cannot hear,  
  
hears nothing but day approaching, comes like a fly does day.  
buzzes around you, asking for something, buzzes, then attacks.  
  
He is not a gypsy  
and he is not a fairy and he is not--  
  
but so much more than me. [3]  
  
[VII.]  
Again he is bleeding air  
into my mouth,  
bleeding air in sighs and words,  
that I cannot understand,   
but I need not.  
need not understand his skin  
need not understand his cries  
need not understand his touch  
his insistence that I can   
change.  
  
Foolish Harry, to create  
what I had wished to be broken.  
Foolish Harry, to believe  
what I have known to be false.  
Foolish Harry, to believe  
and make me believe it too.  
  
He is bleeding his words now   
across my skin  
and they spread like coconut milk [4]  
to cover me.  
I think I am protected,  
can weave a spell for him.  
  
Foolish Harry, to create  
what I had wished to be broken.  
Foolish Harry, to believe  
what I have long given up  
  
[VIII.]  
I look for him--  
  
(Strange. His handwriting looks as if it tastes like strawberries.  
I once loved strawberries,  
their pungent odor of grass and  
basic sweetness,  
and how they were red, red of black and red of blood,  
red like sugar under their skin.  
They stained my breath red  
and I kissed the girls.  
Their cheeks washed with the color   
of strawberries.  
His handwriting now sprawled across my cheeks.)  
  
& I found him--  
  
(Strange. My daddy's handwriting looks as if it tastes like steam.  
Chalky and dusty and empty like him.  
Without much thought  
but painstakingly empty, as if he thought to keep himself shut out.  
Maybe he is outside looking in on himself  
and he can't think of what he is like  
even though he is outside looking inside and inside looking outside  
and there are so many things,  
so many things, daddy,  
that you do not know, your handwriting gives the light of day.  
One time, I heard the sound of a steam kettle  
and thought it was birdcalls outside. [5])  
  
--in the shadows.  
  
[IX.]  
A low keen whining in my ear  
to match the low beating in my chest, the beat of a heart  
that somewhere is not beating but shivering instead.  
Shivering with the rhythm of his flying fingers  
the rhyme of his flowing hair  
and the melody of his flickering skin.  
  
Ah! Him him him.  
  
Like talking over tea, like stitching flowers in white silk.  
How many strange memories  
crammed into accordion minds. The moonshine  
like sweet honey  
of liquor that flowers, of liquor that flows. [6]  
Over my throat,  
in the darkness  
alone  
crushed petals under the rim of my fingernails.  
Their scent is perfume, is red thread drawn over my wrists.  
& his slanting handwriting is trapped under the fabric of my pillow.  
  
Ah! Him him him.  
  
[X.]  
This is goodbye.  
This is.  
This.  
  
This is goodbye.  
This is the tongue falling out of my mouth  
too quick for me to catch.  
This is goodbye.  
This is the eyes following you,  
waiting to engulf you in their grayness.  
This is goodbye.  
  
You.   
  
Say no more words, wait until the months tick by like agony,  
like the promise of no more beginnings and no more endings,  
one day, like this. The train shall depart and continue on,  
and all the people are gone,  
except for us,  
us. Us frolicking like windblown feathers, together, together.  
  
This is goodbye.  
  
Your knees are filled with the scrapes of metal stone where  
we knelt and prayed for nameless gods to help us,  
us, neither of us believe in god, and no god, we flaunt  
destiny. In their faces, nothing but the too pale rivals.  
You, Godric Gryffindor, and I, Salzaar Slytherin.  
The snake and the lion, one to turn on your back  
and bite. But you, you are open and golden and without  
any mars.   
  
This is goodbye.  
This is.  
This. [7]  
  
===  
Notes:   
  
[1] My daddy, daddy, daddy...  
Have you people ever played that hand game, Ms. Mary Mack? It goes like this:  
  
Ms. Mary Mack, Mack, Mack  
all dressed in black, black, black  
with silver buttons, buttons buttons  
all down her back, back back.  
  
There's more, but that's the point. I had it stuck in my head as I wrote the first poem.  
  
[2] she is gypsy  
This comes from a story my friend's parents used to tell him. They told him that they found him from the gypsies, and somehow, that idea struck me. I'm not sure if there are gypsies in the wizarding world, but that's not really the point.  
  
[3] but so much more than me.  
This poem actually rhymes a little. If you group the lines so that there are two stanzas of four lines, and the last stanza with only three, you will see that there is an ABAC rhyme scheme.  
  
[4] and they spread like coconut milk  
There is a fable somewhere about how some worshippers of some god opened a coconut and the milk spread all over a huge statue of the god and completely covered it. The miracle was never repeated, but it was interesting.  
  
[5] and thought it was birdcalls outside.   
If you every listen to the kettle, it does kind of sound like shrill birdcalls. Or it may just be my strange brain at work again.  
  
[6] of liquer that flowers, of liquer that flows.  
The joke here, of course, is that moonshine is also the term for illegal liquer back during some era.  
  
[7] This.  
You know when people sign yearbooks, and they do that annoying:  
  
I  
I did  
I did this   
I did this just...  
  
On and on until it becomes I did this just to take up space?  
Kind of the opposite of that.  
  
===  
  
Well. That's that. Reviews? Or just rotten vegetables? As Jay once said, asking for reviews on poetry is dangerous. But, nonetheless... 


End file.
